The Batoro have little or no fear of death, in fact some seem rather glad to create a little sensation among their friends by becoming for the time the chief object of interest! On one occasion I was called to visit a dying man in the Namasole’s village. With a little bag of medicine strapped on to my saddle, I rode out to see if anything could be done. An unusual stillness had fallen on everyone, for the sick man was none other than the Katikiro of the place. Suddenly, as I stepped up to the doorway of the hut, there arose a wild shriek from inside; this was taken up immediately by everyone around and the air was rent with wailings and loud, piercing screams—I knew at once my medicine would not be required, but, entering, tried to quiet the frenzied mourners. I drew out from my bag the Gospel of St. John, and read the words “I am the Resurrection and the Life.” Immediately the tumult ceased, and everyone listened to the message of Life spoken in the presence of Death; and as we all knelt in prayer one realised perhaps as never before how death hath been swallowed up in Victory. One of the greatest joys one can know is to wave the torch of Life and Immortality across the darkness of ages that has never known a hope beyond the grave. The result of the people’s belief is stamped unmistakably on almost everything in the country. With the lack of physical energy has died the desire to master their country. The rich, productive soil, with its abnormal generative properties, has been left uncared for and unkempt, till “thorns also and thistles,” the insignia of a blighted world, cover a land that might have been a veritable Eden. Tall, tangled weeds creep up to the very doorways of the houses, while most of the roads are merely narrow, beaten tracks. Whenever an attempt is made to tackle an appreciable task, a few days suffices to exhaust the labourer completely; at the end of that time he may be seen in a state of total collapse, with a strip of rag bound tightly round the hand, the outward and visible sign of being _hors de combat_. In Toro one realises at times the dead weight of life and its environment. The changes of the seasons—spring with the freshness of infancy and vitality of youth; summer decked in the exquisite glory of a new life; autumn and winter folding tired nature up in a long, deep sleep—are sadly missed where the trees are always green. The sympathy in nature is lacking; flowers lose their subtle and delicate charm; the bright, soft sward is there exchanged for the elephant grass with its saw-like blades. The birds have no song; the voices of music and poetry have never been heard; and as age after age has rolled by, no lip has breathed a prayer to its Creator. There are instances when heathenism seems to surround one with such blackness that the soul stands as if isolated in a foreign Land, breathing a new atmosphere in which there is lacking the spiritual ether of one’s native land. CHAPTER XI Language